


Wet Paint

by JustAnotherOutcast



Category: White Collar
Genre: Other, Painting, Thinking, forgeries, introspective, not very happy, woooooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 02:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14227065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherOutcast/pseuds/JustAnotherOutcast
Summary: A short introspective bit on Neal, Van Gogh, and his paintings.





	Wet Paint

As much as Neal was in love with the forgeries he made, he hated them.

The process was enthralling. Finding prints and resources; digging up information on the paints used, the canvas, the tiny little details that weren’t to be forgotten; finding a way to fake everything, do it over again, find Van Gogh’s little shack and recreate what he did there.

(But we’ll skip the depression and delusions, thanks.)

The painting itself would take hours, and he would get lost in the waves of color. Color he couldn’t choose. It was all laid out before him, already complete. It has to be perfect.

(Add a little twist to your stroke. You’re not Neal Caffrey, you’re Van Gogh, and he added a twist, so that’s what we’re gonna do.)

Looking back on it when he was done, every painting made him feel accomplished. He copied masters after all, flawlessly. That was something to be proud of. (But also, where are you putting those skills...? We already have enough Starry Nights.)

What, exactly, did he do it for? The money, sure. The challenge. That wasn’t what the art world cared about. Well, money was important. But most of the art community was dirt broke, college students ranting about their emotions and trying to make a statement.

He didn’t really care about making a statement.

(Except don’t look _away_ , I did work hard on that, you know.)

“Calms the nerves.”

He said that to Peter once. It was true. Painting really did wonders for calming him down. Rather hard to worry about what’s expected of you when you’re Van Gogh and you’ve gotta figure out what you’re gonna say to the next doctor to make him go away. (I thought we were gonna skip that part.)

He rarely painted in his own head. The lighting was awful in there. But he was always one for a challenge, right?

Could he paint something original? Something that came from him alone?

He’d struggled with it. A style didn’t come naturally to him. He had to pick one, decide which artist he might try to mimic that day. (Or why not go for realism this time around?) The abstract symbolism and personalized paradigm a painting was supposed to contain, he could only copy it. His emotions didn’t seem to flow in the paint like they did for Van Gogh. (And he’s not the only artist out there, you know. You don’t even _like_ his work that much.)

He’d painted originals before, absolutely. He’d done several things he would even say he was proud of. Extensions to famous pieces, alterations, commentaries. Everyone had their version of the Mona Lisa. (She was laughing in his; da Vinci must’ve said something funny.)

Let’s not think about the purely original canvases he’s tossed, the ones that barely got beyond the beginning stages before he decided he hated it. Before he figured out he had no idea what he was doing. Before he decided Van Gogh’s was better.

(At least Van Gogh put his emotions to use. At least he made something new. At least he finished his paintings without falling back onto the success of others to make it work.)

He didn’t mind too much that a truly original piece might never come out of him. It wasn’t like he didn’t create compelling pieces, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have fun with it, or like he couldn’t express himself. No. He was Neal Caffrey, the person who could be Anyone. That was pretty cool.

So his canvases were covered with old paints and copied patterns. So what? He could glean his creativity from others. Excuse me, he could be inspired. There was no problem with that.

(Maybe he wished that his mind didn’t go blank when Elizabeth asked him to draw her something original for her birthday.)

He’d do something original some day. He’d put himself on the canvas, with all the fancy symbolism and emotionally charged whatever the hell every art snob looked for in their paintings. (Ones they couldn’t possibly hope to recreate, mind you.) He’d do it the right way.

Eventually.

(No, no, don’t look at that one, it’s not done yet. It’s not _good_ yet.  
Give it a century or so, maybe it’ll be better.

Like Van Gogh.)

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I needed to write something that wasn't trying to be a big thing or whatever, and this happened in the span of 2 hours. I really needa write more, and publishing stuff is my cry for attention. uuuuuuuuuh yeah
> 
> Anyway, this isn't meant to bash on people for not having their own style or for not being "original," there's a whole debate in that anyway that i don't needa touch on. Just some depressing introspective bs :)


End file.
